Displacement
by Asidian
Summary: Soren's desire to study away from home is driven not by choice, but by the need to escape the memory of his own helplessness. ShinonxSoren, IkexSoren.


Author's Notes: Urk. This fic hurt me in so many ways. Feel plenty free to ream me for OOC-ness. Or just in general, if you'd like. There will be more forthcoming, if I can come to terms with this mess. -wry grin-

Insert information about me not owning characters here.

Warnings: Angst. Implied noncon. Spoilers.

* * *

Displacement

* * *

The rain was a distant clatter on the roof outside, a background annoyance that the young mage had been ignoring for nearly an hour already.

The chill that it caused, however, was much more difficult to disregard; his robes, after all, were somewhat on the thin side, and though the cloak fastened about his shoulders was heavy, the only fire gracing this room with its warmth was the flickering light of a single, half-burned candle. Stifling his annoyance at the situation- and suppressing a shiver- the boy set down the sword that he'd been examining and moved on to the next.

A quick glance told him all he really needed to know: the iron was growing weak near the handle, beginning to twist out of shape under the countless jarring blows that it had sustained during battle. It would need replacing before the Greil mercenaries left on their next job.

Soren set it down carefully beside the first, making sure that the handle hung, just a quarter of an inch, over the edge of the shelf; it was his way of being sure that he would recall, when he came with replacements, which swords had been in poor condition. With painstaking care, the boy turned to make note in the book of records left open on the table behind him, hand steady, script small and neat.

It was not his duty to keep inventory- though someday, he supposed, when at last Greil conceded that he was old enough, the task would fall to his shoulders- but on nights like this, when even the more responsible of the mercenary band were celebrating the wealth newly gained by their most recent job, it was hard to trust that any of them would pull themselves from drunken reverie long enough to prepare for much beyond the next mug of ale.

And so Soren did it himself.

Ignored the chill in the air as he reached to count the number of arrows left in the quiver beside him. Fought down the twinge of annoyance as a crash loud enough to be heard over the pounding of the rain echoed vaguely from the direction in which he'd abandoned the chaos they termed a party. Told himself patiently, for the third time that evening, that this was a necessary part of preparations, and that Greil, at very least, deserved-

The sound, when it came, was much closer than the residual noise that drifted periodically to the lonely little room: the click of a door opening, near at hand.

It was not particularly loud, but it was a sound that the mage had been listening for almost since he'd arrived. After all, Ike knew quite well how Soren despised social gatherings, and more than once had been known to forgo the festivities in order to keep the boy company.

There were words on the young mage's lips as he turned- something sharper than necessary, perhaps, to cover up the peculiar rush of pleasure that always followed when Ike deliberately sought him out on nights like these- but whatever he'd intended to say died in his throat as dusky red eyes raised to greet the figure in the door.

"Shoulda-" Shinon managed, voice thick with alcohol. "Shoulda known _you'd_ be here." The 'you' was pronounced as though the sniper had discovered something unpleasant on the bottom of one boot and only just put a name to it.

Soren fixed the man with a withering glare, unruffled. "Doing something productive? Imagine that." Deliberately, he turned his back on the man, facing his work once more.

"So," Shinon answered, lurching away from the door to stagger toward the mage. "Little boy thinks he's smart enough to talk down." The last step very nearly became his undoing; one toe caught against a particularly uneven stone, and his feet, usually so graceful, stumbled under the effects of the alcohol. There was a moment when he nearly went down- but the table upon which Soren's book of records rested was close enough that a pair of outstretched palms kept him from hitting the floor face-first.

It was the dull thud of flesh on wood that brought the mage round to face him once more, and for a moment, dusky red eyes met bloodshot.

"Always got something to say," Shinon drawled, inebriation making his words much slower than usual. "Gotta show off what your pretty little head can do."

"You," Soren declared, "are drunk." The boy's glare, fixed and unwavering, was laden with every bit of the chipped ice that edged his tone. "And breathtakingly dull as you are sober, it's a wonder you aren't embarrassed to be seen in public after drowning what passes for intelligent-"

But whatever sharp words had been yet intended were lost as the sniper shifted his weight, leaned heavily upon the edge of the table, and reached out to close his hand over Soren's shoulder. "Go on," he breathed. "Keep talking."

The boy's lips tightened almost imperceptibly, expression teetering someplace between disgust and understated fury. Belatedly, he wished that he'd thought to take one of his tomes with him. "Take. Your hand off," the mage ground out, each syllable harsh and deliberate.

"Giving _orders_ now?" The question was a mask of forced amusement, but below it, pride and irritation warred in equal parts. Shinon tightened his grip until he caught the inadvertent wince that skittered across the boy's features- brought his other hand up to rest on the free shoulder. "What're you, _commander_?"

In the dim candle light of the room, the glint in Soren's eyes was transformed into something dangerous. "For the amount of trouble you'll be in if you don't do as I say, I may as well be."

Shinon leaned in close, voice low, as though sharing a secret with a friend. "What're you gonna do?" he asked, pressing nearer as the boy turned his head against the stink of alcohol. "Tattle?"

The step back was inadvertent- a slip of will, Soren's mind accused him, and one that ended with the mage pressed against the shelves behind him, no room left to retreat. It was this realization, as much as the boy's deeply ingrained mistrust of others- he'd experienced casual cruelty often enough, after all, that he had little reason to think that Shinon was incapable of the same- that stole the retort from his lips.

"I've got news, Soren." And one of those hands was sliding down he boy's arm, now, capturing a slender wrist even as it attempted to squirm out of reach. A quiet sound that may have been protest worked its way from the mage's throat as Shinon closed whatever negligible distance had remained between them. "The commander's brat isn't here." He was near enough, as he spoke the next words, for his lips to brush the shell of the boy's ear. "You're on your own."

"I don't need any help," the mage hissed, "to handle someone like you."

And very nearly, he made good on the promise; the free hand slipped back behind him, felt along time-worn wood to seek out the handle of the battered blade he'd so recently examined. But as his fingers discovered the hilt and the boy wondered fleetingly whether he was strong enough even to wield the weapon, Shinon was closing a crushing grip just below his elbow, dragging his arm up until it was pressed hard against the shelf divider directly above his head.

"Oh," the sniper smirked, entirely too amused. "I see. Well then-" The hold on the wrist still at his side grew harder still, and though he fought against it, a single gloved hand dragged his arm inexorably upward. "-why don't you show me what your grand plan is?"

Soren fell back against the shelves behind him as the man's thumb closed down and tightened in- jerked downward once, hard, with all the force he possessed. But a sniper's strength lies in his arms, his hands, and the effort had about as much effect as theboy had reasonably expected of it.

"It's astounding that you've been a mercenary so long," he snapped, to cover his apprehension, "and have yet to grasp something so simple as the advantage presented by the element of surprise."

Shinon grinned at that, a narrow, confident expression usually reserved for just after he'd made a particularly difficult kill. "Go on, then," he challenged, and leaned in further. "Surprise me, if you can."

The meeting of lips coincided precisely with the moment that Soren opened his mouth to reply- stole breath and thought and filled him with the sour taste of old alcohol. Distantly, the part still able to make objective observations informed him thatShinon's free hand had settled on his side, was creeping its way downward, slow and inexorable.

For a long moment, there was no sound but the rain on the roof, hard and relentless, and the distant clamor of a celebration still underway.

Soren was not quite certain that the fear didn't show in his eyes.

* * *

Commander Greil sat down heavily, leveling the boy with a long, considering gaze. "…I trust you've given it some thought?"

"Yes." Dusky red eyes stared back, unflinching. "My current knowledge is hampered by the scope of our assignments. If I'm to become the company's functional tactician, I'll need practice outmaneuvering more sophisticated opponents."

"Oh?" A single eyebrow climbed its way toward the man's scalp.

"Bandits," Soren pointed out, "do not provide much of a strategic challenge."

The statement was greeted with a hearty laugh and a shake of the man's head, and Soren smiled at him, a tight curve of lips.

When the laughter had passed, Greil leaned back in his chair. "Have you talked to Ike about this?"

There was a hesitation before the answer came, a split second when the name threw Soren off-balance. "I thought it best to see whether the option was viable, first." His voice wavered hardly at all.

"Hm," the commander acknowledged. "I see."

There was silence, then, a bit heavier than it ought to have been; as it dragged on, Soren suppressed the urge to shift uncomfortably under the force of the man's stare, further convinced as the seconds passed that Greil did indeed see. Perhaps beyond what had been said.

"I know a man from up near the capital," the commander said, at length. "Sturdy head on his shoulders. You'll probably be through with his entire library in the first week, but in terms of practical knowledge..."

"That's what I need," Soren insisted. The urgency that slipped through into the words was enough to startle the both of them.

For a long moment, Greil studied the face of a boy that he'd watched grow up- a boy that was as much family to him as his own children.

"If you're sure," he said at last, slowly.

The smile came again, a shell of an expression, as the mage turned to go. "I am."

-end?-


End file.
